Plot Bunnies
by Erratta
Summary: A collection of ideas too short or complicated to take past a short oneshot. You want them, you take them. Otherwise, just enjoy!
1. The Halfa Strikes Back

**Episode 55: The Halfa Strikes Back**

_I don't own anything in this drabble._

Danny Fenton was justifiably furious.

His parents' creepy and psychotic friend, Vlad Masters, had decided to stay with him and his mother following Jack Fenton's funeral, and the man was currently attempting to chat up his mother. Danny was having a hard stopping himself from attacking the man right there and revealing himself as a ghost hybrid. He just sat on the couch opposite his arch-enemy and glared stiffly at him, with a look that would have killed if Danny had the power to do it.

Finally Maddie stood up, said something about fixing tea. The moment she was out of the room, Danny was up and ready to fight.

"What are you doing here, Plasmius?"

"Merely consolling an old acquaintance, my dear boy," Vlad oozed. "What else could I _possibly_ be doing here?"

"Maybe trying to get me to join the Dark Side?"

"Me, the Dark Side? Daniel, you must be mistaking me for someone else." Vlad chuckled.

Danny fired a blast at the man, catching him off-guard and sending him flying hard against a wall.

"No, I don't think so, Vlad. Dad's death may have been labelled an "accident," but I know you killed him!" Danny hit Vlad's chest again as he advanced towards the older man's slumped form. He made no effort to mask his animosity. "You killed my father, Vlad."

Though noticeably in pain, Vlad smiled one of his chilling smiles and looked up at the boy standing over him. He tried to pull himself into a sitting position, and Danny tensed, preparing for a counterattack.

"I never had the heart to tell you this before," Vlad wheezed. The blows to the chest had obviously hurt him badly, but sadly not fatally. "You were so devoted to that idiot Jack." Vlad reached out and caught the hem of Danny's shirt, and pulled it towards him.

"Daniel, I _am_ your father."

_Can anyone guess what's being parodied here? And the first two don't count._


	2. Taking Hip to a Whole New Level

_Thanks to Pterodactyl, Chaos Inducer, Hidden Author, dPhantoMfreak, krisarlens-insane-dpatlajnfop-, Linkmaste, Bunny Bubble, and shadowspinner1._

_Cookie for Linkmaste, who adopted "Episode 55"._

Taking Hip to a Whole New Level 

Imagine, if you will, a large room lit only with coloured lights, most of which are focused on a curtained stage at one end. The room is filled with people, all waiting excitedly for the show to begin. The air is hazy with smoke and the bartender is doing a brisk business. So far, the place looks like any other nightclub, in any city in America. And it would past the test completely if the occupants of the room weren't various shades of blue and green, and floating several inches off the floor.

Yes folks, this is the Troll's Club in the entertainment sector of the Ghost Zone. This club is known for promoting up-and-coming ghost musicians, as well as recent arrivals to the dimension. Tonight is one of its monthly open mike nights, with artists of varying talents and abilities showing their stuff to a hopefully receptive audience.

The crowd hushes as the MC glides over the stage and taps the mike once to make sure it's on.

"Welcome!" he calls, spreading his arms wide, then grabs the microphone stand to pull it closer to himself. "We've got a really great line-up for you folks tonight, a couple rockers just passed on in the human world, and we've got a few regulars coming up later. Plus, the Box Ghost has promised us a time we'll never forget. I just hope it's not like the music box from last time."

The crowd laughs lightly, remembering the expectant blue face of the ghost as he held a small box up to the microphone. The MC waits for the laughter to die, then speaks again.

"But first of all, please help me welcome," he draws a card from his pocket, "the swellest cat you'll ever set eyes on, the hippest dawg in the Zone, a ghost so jiving with his inner pimp it's gnarly... Mr. Nicholai Technus!"

The Master of Technology comes on stage to take the mike and the more recently dead members of the audience shudder. He's exchanged his black trench coat for a violently purple one, sports lime green pants, and appears to be using Desiree's bracelets for the requisite bling-bling. His long hair is braided into cornrows. It's obvious that he's done research before this gig, but has miscalculated the effect the get-up would have when placed on a skinny green ghost with a white mullet and eighties sunglasses.

Technus takes the mike and nods at the sound guy. A rap beat begins playing in the background and the aspiring performer strikes a pose more reminiscent of a Kiss concert than anything else.

_I was walkin' down the street of Amity Park, dawg,_

The ghost's voice is nasal and just slightly offbeat.

_And the whole place was covered in some sort of fog._

_I was lookin' around for tech I could use_

_But couldn't find nothin', not even a fuse._

By this point Technus has formed bull's horns with his left hand and is moving the symbol up and down repeatedly, double speed.

_Looked like that Phantom done his job pretty swell,_

_No tech could I see to make his life ..._

Before he can finish the line, he is simultaneously hit from all sides by ectoblasts of all colours, as well as a few projectile weapons and several types of ghost breath. When a performer at the Troll's Club stinks as bad as Technus does, they don't need to bring out the cane. The audience does the job much more effectively.


	3. The First and Only Time

_Thanks to Pterodactyl, dPhantoMfreak, Bunny Bubble, and Chaos Inducer._

_This will probably be the last drabble for a while, because it's the last I've actually written. Just so you know. I've got some great ideas though!_

**The First (and Only) Time**

Jack Fenton was tinkering with an invention in the lab. This one was supposed to suck ghosts into an alternate space-time dimension, but Jack was having difficulties getting the measurements right. Finally, he gave up and trusted his instincts. The Fenton Ghost Dimensionizer was finished! In his excitement he didn't even wait for his wife, Maddie, to get home from the supermarket.

"Bonzai!"

A quick burst of green energy flew out of the device and encased Jack, the lab, and the house. As quickly as it had come, it was gone again. Jack smiled.

"It works!"

---

Maddie Fenton had just parked the car outside FentonWorks when there was a flash of light. She shielded her eyes instinctively, and when she lowered her arm again, the house had disappeared.

Maddie groaned. Jack was alone in the house, which meant it would take him a while to realize that something had gone wrong with the Dimensionizer and then it would take him a while longer to fix the problem. In the meantime, Jack was going to miss the school play, her children's lives were going to be disrupted, she was going to have to book a hotel room, and to top it off, she had a carload of groceries that were going to go bad. She slammed the car door angrily and backed out of the driveway.

_When Jack brings the house back, I am _never_ letting this go._


	4. Attacking a Halfa

_Thanks to Yami-chan and Unrealistic, Bunny Bubble, Idiots Unite, dPhantoMfreak, Data-Dog, and Weh8lyfsoweryt.RobynAndMike._

Attacking a Halfa 

"I am the Box Ghost!" yelled the pudgy blue figure rising up from the large cardboard box in the center of Danny's room. Danny, Sam, and Tucker, who were preparing to install Danny's new stereo system, all groaned, and Danny went ghost looking bored. Sam held him back, though, and turned to face the former postal worker, who was looking very confused that the normal pattern of events wasn't taking place.

"What have we talked about?" Sam asked the ghost, crossing her arms. The Box Ghost put a finger to his lips in deep thought.

"Uh, I don't need to limit myself to boxes?" he asked slowly.

"Good. What else?"

"I'm really annoying?"

"And?" Sam sounded impatient.

"Yelling 'beware' and 'fear me' isn't very threatening?"

"Fourth times the charm..." Sam shifted aside slightly to let the Box Ghost get a good view of Danny's ectoblast. The ghost shuddered and began thinking furiously. Finally, he hit upon the right answer and raised his index finger with a florish.

"Attacking a halfa in his own home is a really bad idea!"

"Perfect!" yelled Danny, releasing the ectoblast and trapping the ghost in the Thermos before you could say, "bubble wrap of DOOM."

_So, this was a scene I wanted to include in the fic I'm writing right now, but couldn't find a place to put. Still, it was too fun to let go entirely, so I'm drabbling it instead. I hope you enjoyed it._


	5. The Dare

_Yes, everyone, I am still alive! I've just been busy. Here's a drabble to stave you off. Hope you like it! There's a oneshot coming soon..._

_Thanks to dPhantoMfreak, Weh8lyfsoweryt.RobynAndMike, Yami-chan and Unrealistic, KILLERGRIM23, and Bunny Bubble._

The Dare 

Danny looked down at the steaming mass in front of him. It looked worse than anything the school had tried to feed him. It looked worse than the time his father had tried to reheat nachos in the Fenton Ectowave. But the way it _looked_ was no comparison to the way it _smelled._

The smell was best described by comparisons. It was like Tucker's feet after gym practice, the Emergency Ham, the men's washroom at the Nasty Burger, and a dumpster, all rolled into one fetid, rotting mass. Danny's stomach churned, despite the clothespin effectively blocking his sense of smell.

Through watery eyes, Danny saw every person in his grade, as well as all the A-list members from older years and a number of other familiar faces, grouped around him. They never had anything better to do at lunch than watch a geek get tormented by the school bully. Danny gulped. He'd literally done everything in his power to avoid this moment, and now he had no choice. His ghost powers weren't going to help him with this one.

The black-haired boy clutched his knife and fork in his hands and stared down at the plate in front of him. To two sympathetic pats on the back from his best friends, Danny began the arduous task of eating Dash Baxter's underwear.


	6. Who Ya Gonna Call?

Thanks to Yami-chan and Unrealistic, Chaos inducer, Bunny Bubble, Pterodactyl, dPhantoMfreak, and Arabic Blessing.

**Who Ya Gonna Call?**

_Another crossover. I don't own Danny Phantom and I don't own the other show either._

A young man in his mid twenties walked slowly down a dirty New York street on a grey city morning, obviously looking for something. His black hair hung stylishly long, almost covering his eyes, and his orange jumpsuit, fresh from the cleaners for his big day, gleamed. There was a lot of orange. There was a lot of man.

At a derelict corner, the man, Jack Fenton, pulled a crumpled news clipping from a pocket and examined it. Then he examined the old stone building, possibly an old fire hall, in front of him and tugged a few wrinkles out of his clothes. Satisfied that he was presentable, he crossed the street nervously and entered the building through its open wooden doors. He then made his way through the piles of boxes and car parts to the reception area and waited expectantly for the secretary to finish her phone call.

Finally the woman, dark hair cut short and looking even smaller than Jack's bride of six months, Maddie, hung up and looked at him.

"What?" she snapped.

"Errr, I'm here about the job," Jack answered, trying to sound professional. This could very well be his big break into the world of ghost hunting, and he would need the money to support his wife and in a few years, their children as well. A job like this one, with the world's most famous paranormalists, might even catch the attention of Jack's friend, Vlad, still hospitalized with ecto-acne years after the unfortunate lab accident.

The secretary looked Jack up and down as she rifled through the papers on her desks. It would have been fairly obvious to an observer that she didn't approve of his appearance, even though Jack missed it completely. She located the paper she'd been looking for and gestured for Jack to sit down in one of the old chairs in front of the desk. He did so, gingerly, and she began to conduct the interview in a broad New York accent. Jack answered the questions as best he could, taking care to point out his background and interest in the field. Ten minutes later the interview was drawing to a close and the secretary adjusted the large round glasses perched on her nose.

"Okay," she drawled, "last question. Do you believe in U.F.O's, astral projection, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, full-trance mediums, telekinetic movement, black and/or white magic, pyramidology, the theory of Atlantis, the Loch Ness Monster, or in general in spooks, spectres, wraiths, geists and ghosts?" Jack blinked. He had barely understood half the words she'd just used. The secretary glared at him dubiously.

"You don't, do you?" she asked.

"I believe in ghosts," Jack put forward trying to sound convincing.

"And the other stuff?"

Jack fought the urge to scratch his head. "Does it have to do with ghosts?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"Then of course I do!" Jack boomed. It was the secretary's turn to blink.

"Well," she began, setting the interview sheet and Jack's slightly tattered resume aside and smiling ingratiatingly, "I'll let Mr. Venkman know you came in. Thank you for coming, Mr. Fenton. We'll be in touch."

Jack stood up and held out his large hand to the secretary, who gingerly placed hers inside it.

"Thanks for the opportunity, ma'am," Jack said as he pumped her hand. "I just know I'll be a great part of the team." He released her hand, grinned at her, then practically bounded out of the Ghostbusters H.Q. onto the New York street.

About five minutes later, a disheveled and unshaven man slide down the fire pole into the office area and made a beeline for the coffee machine. The secretary watched him until he'd down his second cup of coffee and was therefore able to function for the day, then mentioned the interview. The man grunted with interest as he picked up the resume Jack had left behind.

"He's actually got a degree in this stuff?"

"Yeah."

"And he's wearing an orange jumpsuit?"

"Yeah."

The man set his mug down on a stack of bills and pelted towards the door in one swift movement. He caught up with Jack Fenton a few minutes later, breathing laboriously, and swung a welcoming arm around the younger man's shoulders.

"Jack, buddy, I can call you Jack right? I'm Peter Venkman and I'd like to welcome you to the Ghostbusters. You're hired."

A/N: It had to happen someday.


	7. Behind the Scenes

Thanks to dPhantoMfreak, Yami-chan and Unrealistic, Golden Lunar Eclipse, IHaveInsanityImpulses, Quacked Lurker, Pterodactyl, KaleiC, Coronadofwb, Nonasuki-chan

_**This drabble is rated T for language and mild trauma. It is also strongly advised that you finish eating before reading this and put down your drink. Esme is not responsible for any damage failure to do this might cause.**_

**Behind the Scenes**

I'm ashamed to admit it, but at the moment I'm cowering behind a large leather chair in the sound studio of Channel 5 Action News. I'm filing this under "Desperate Measures Done in the Name of Self-Preservation." I don't want to talk about it.

"But Lance, we've got to have somebody at the scene!" That frantic voice would be Tiffany. The woman who's _supposed_ to be doing all the live reporting here. Princess.

"Go yourselves! You've sent me out the last two times! I am _not_ doing it again!" I had to go in for therapy for three months after that last time. All those needles... I'm twitching. Good Lord, I'm_ twitching_. I thought I was over that.

"Lance, we didn't have anyone else..." Like _hell_ they didn't. They just didn't want to get injured themselves. 'Oh, let's send the weatherman. He's expendable.'

"Why can't I cover from the studio?"

"Because we've got to ha-" That line again. Give me a break. They could just send the bloody cameraman on his own.

"So you go. I'll stay." I come out from behind the chair on my knees and turn on the tears. "Please, Tiffany? Pleeease?"

"I don't even know what you're getting upset about." The bitch folds her arms. I think she expects that to work on me. Maybe for her bimbo boyfriends... I get up in preparation for the big scene.

"Do you remember what happened the last time I covered something? I was attacked by Christmas trees! And the time before that, it was ghost skeletons. I'm not going out there again!" I should have have won an Oscar for that. I could have, if I hadn't mistakenly decided that a job in meterology was better than a role in a Hollywood comedy. Christ, what was I _on_ when I made that decision?

"But Lance, you look so good on camera..."

"Thank you, but that's not going to work this time." I fold my arms now too, but quickly unfold them when I feel two large hands on my shoulders. It's Bill. That means if I do _this_ ... and _this ... shit._ They've pinned my arms behind my back. I panic and start flailing my legs in every direction. I'm not going to go down easy.

"No! No! You can't make me do this!" I think I just got Tiffany's kittycat coffee mug. Take that, Ms. Perfect. All over your notes. And then I'm through the door, slammed into the news van, and driven downtown where God knows what is happening. I just hope nothing attacks me this time. I can't afford plastic surgery.

I'm so quitting the moment I'm back at Channel 5.

_Because Lance Thunder doesn't get enough screen time._


	8. Okay, Well, This is New

**Okay, Well, This is New**

You know, it's funny how you go through life believing one thing and then it's completely derailed in an instant.

For instance, there's this whole half-ghost business. Once I got used to the idea that I could fly and shoot energy rays out of my hands, it was actually pretty cool. I mean, I could _fly_ and shoot _energy rays_ out of my _hands_. It's any teenager's dream, right? And the whole saving-the-world-from-evil thing? Seriously awesome, even if it's kinda painful most of the time.

Or take Vlad. He was my parents' best friend in college, and seemed like a cool, if creepy guy, and then he turns out to have ghost powers too and is trying to kill Dad, marry Mom, and make me some kind of evil apprentice so he can take over the world. Right, okay, I can deal with that. It's not like the fruitloop's ever going to get anywhere.

It's kind of funny how quickly I adjust to that sort of thing. I guess living in a family of ghost-hunting inventors makes you immune to pretty much anything strange. Honestly, those glowing letters outside the house should read, "Weirdness R Us." Except that might look kind of strange….

Anyway, I'm blocking, or stalling, or something, 'cause my mind just doesn't want to deal with what I'm looking at right now. Still, somehow I think I've already adjusted to the newest derailment. Man, I'm getting good at this.

So Klemper shows up and, well, I expect you know the rest. By the time I've caught him, I'm too awake to go back to sleep immediately, so figure, hey, let's go dump him back in the Ghost Zone now instead of doing it in the morning when I might have to avoid my folks.

I phase down to the lab stairs and go human so I can get past the Fenton Genetic Lock and open the stupid Portal. That's when I notice the lights in the lab are still on, but then I realize there's no noise. They must have just forgotten to turn them off when they went to bed, right? Still, better safe than sorry, so I turn invisible and go down the rest of the steps as quietly as I can. I get to the bottom, turn towards the Portal, and stop dead. I think my jaw dropped, 'cause it's kind of starting to ache now.

Cut to present, a minute later. The scene's the same. There I am, invisible, looking upwards at what looks like my mom, but can't be. I mean, the blue jumpsuit and red goggles are there all right, but since when did Mom glow or float? The logical part of my mind is saying this is either an experiment of theirs or she's been possessed, but my gut instinct is that this is the real deal.

My mother, the intrepid ghost hunter Madeline Fenton, is floating up by the ceiling, facing the Portal, and laughing softly. It's not bad laughing, though. It's the same kind of laughter I have when I'm zooming through the clouds to relieve stress after school. That pretty much kills the possession theory. Most ghosts don't laugh like that, especially if they're overshadowing someone.

Right, so it's either an invention or she's dead. One way to find out, I guess. Initiate visibility. Initiate puzzled (not much of a stretch, really). Operation is go.

"Mom?"

She starts and whirls around. "Danny?! W-what are you doing down here?" She's afraid. I can understand that. It would be my first reaction too.

"Um, I was getting a drink and saw the lights on?"

Mom relaxes a little and flies down in front of me, pulling her hood off at the same time. Her eyes are bright purple, and definitely glowing.

"Danny, I'm sorry." She frowns a little. "I was, I mean, your father, we…."

She's going to start crying any minute now. I reach out and pull her into a hug, just like she used to do all those times I got hurt as a kid.

"It's okay, Mom. I'm cool." And so's she. _Ghost_ cool. Huh. This isn't an experiment, then.

"R-really?" She pulls out of the hug and looks me in the eyes. "After everything your father and I have taught you about ghosts being evil? How can you just accept me like that?"

"'Cause you're my mom." I give her a smile. "You're too nice to be evil. And you haven't exactly gone out and caused damage or anything. That's always been Dad." That gets a chuckle. Good.

"Still, it's got to be a big shock to you."

"Yeah, it is," I agree. "Totally not what I was expecting to see down here tonight. And you don't need to explain anything now. I'll wait till you're ready."

"Thanks." She wipes her eyes. "Just don't tell your father, please? If he knew…."

"I get it." Do I _ever. "_I won't say a word, Mom, I promise."

* * *

_And there I stop because going further is going to turn this into a full-borne oneshot or chaptered dealie., This bunny is 100 adoptable, if anyone's insane enough to take it. This is what I see showing up later in the story, for what it's worth:_

_- One of her utility belt components blocks ectoenergy waves, so she doesn't register on sensors or Danny's ghost sense.  
- She's obsessed with a) Jack; b) cookies; c) being human.  
- She doesn't use her powers much, and never publicly.  
- She was haunting the University of Wisconsin labs (died in a lab accident, maybe), met Jack and the V-man, and convinced them to start working on a ghost portal because she wanted to get home. Of course, that experiment failed and she was too attached to the human world by the time of the second portal to get back.  
- Jack and Vlad have no idea she isn't human.  
- She was worried that her ghost DNA would affect her children (Danny: "Umm….").  
- The only way she can eat human food is if it's high in ectoplasm, hence the Fenton Ecto-Cooker._


	9. Vlad Vs Chainsaw

_Thanks to Unrealistic, Pterodactyl, whirlgirl, dPhantoMfreak, Bunny Bubble,Nonasuki-chan, DJ jaz-e-jaz, SquirrelGirl13, Nonamei Midnight, and anyone who's faved/commented since I went MIA._

_Unrealistic has adopted __Behind the Scenes_

**Vlad Vs. Chainsaw**

Vlad was scared. Daniel wasn't supposed to provoke this reaction in him. But honestly, what else could you feel when faced with an angry teenage half-ghost with a Fenton Chainsaw?

Vlad was flying at top speed around his castle, inside and out, trying to lose the drone of the weapon just long enough to catch his breath and form some sort of plan. But as fast as Vlad flew, Daniel was right behind him. The elder halfa was tiring.

He finally paused for a breather above the highest turret of his castle and tried to get some of his strength back. The purr of the Chainsaw's motor was audible below as Daniel flew from room to room. And then suddenly there was silence. Vlad's face went from lively turquoise to pale blue in an instant. Now he couldn't track the darned thing.

Time to be logical then.

Fact: Daniel had come through the Plasmius Portal an hour ago. He had been chasing Vlad ever since.

Fact: The Chainsaw was a prototype Fenton weapon, and the early blueprints Vlad had stolen had Jack's messy scrawl on them: _chain covered in ectoranium, ectoplasmic motor, slice and dice like never before_.

Fact: Somehow the buffoon had managed to actually build one of the things.

Fact: Vlad probably shouldn't have hired another mercenary to kill Jack and kidnap Maddie.

Fact: Vlad should have run a better background check on the assassin, because then he'd have realized she had a tendency to question authority and think for herself. Obviously, possession of six different battle axes, a broadsword, and about three square feet of leather and chainmail didn't make the minion.

Fact: Vlad was not as young as he used to be.

Fact: Vlad no longer knew where the Chainsaw was.

The accursed machine roared to life behind him. Vlad fainted, and Danny started laughing. Served him right.


	10. L Space

**L-Space**

It's a little-known fact that the written word has mass and that therefore large collections of books warp space-time about as much as clothes dryers, in case you're wondering where those socks go. The keepers of this secret —librarians and bookshop owners — have discovered, though trial, error, study, and accumulated wisdom, that this warping not only makes the insides of libraries and bookstores larger than their outsides, but also connects libraries to each other if you know how to access the bridges.

It's a well-known fact in the Ghost Zone that the Ghostwriter is a recluse. If you ask him, and of course no one ever does because he lashes out at intruders, he would say that he leaves through his books rather than his door. Any ghost would take that to mean that he preferred to read and write than enjoy the company of others. That is just how the Ghostwriter likes it.

The first friend he'd made in L-Space was known simply as the Librarian, and the only reason he'd met him was because the Librarian controlled the largest magical library in the multiverse and did the most exploration of anyone in the High Guild of Librarians. In other words, the Librarian had found _him_. They'd turned down opposite ends of **Chickens: Soufflé – Rincewind** (which the ghost could have sworn wasn't actually in his lair), sized each other up, and then, with a curious but welcoming expression, the Librarian had padded down the aisle, grabbed his hand, and said, "Ook." The Ghostwriter had been pleased to discover that Orangutan wasn't a very difficult language to understand.

The Librarian had taught him the dangers, layout, and theory of L-Space, and told him ("Ook, oook ook! Eek!") to visit again. Naturally, he had, because who could pass up access to books that anywhere else would have been called fantasies or memoirs of the insane instead of historical tomes that they actually were? But the Ghostwriter discovered other worlds of fantasy during his wanderings too.

There was the Elvish library at Imladris, for instance, where a dark-haired man had seen him and mistaken him for a thief until he realized that his daggers were having no effect on the ghost. Once he'd noticed the pointed tips of the Ghostwriter's ears, he'd cautiously welcomed him as an ancestor. That relationship was now solid, though Elrond was much too formal for it to ever be a friendship.

The most startling discovery had probably been finding out about Earth's own magical community, though. He'd been searching for a book on witchcraft, to tie into what he was learning about wizards from Elrond and the Librarian, when he'd rounded a corner to come face to face with a stern elderly woman who'd raised a stick in the air and shot a bolt of blue light through him. He'd vanished on instinct, and she must have assumed she'd gotten rid of him, because she'd given a little contented, "Hmph" and hastily swept down the aisle. As soon as she'd disappeared, the Ghostwriter cast around for something, anything, to tell him where he was _this_ time, and that was when he heard the following conversation:

"Cor, Fred, did you see that?"

"Yeah. D'y'think we should reconsider hiding those Enchacomics?"

"Nah, this'll just make it more fun. What do you think he was?"

"Prob'ly some kind of book spirit. I wonder if we could summon some more…."

That had piqued his interest just enough for him to risk visibility again, and the owners of the voices, grinning madly, had rushed up from behind and congratulated him for scaring "ol' Pince" like that. They weren't afraid when he'd mentioned his ghosthood, took his story of an alternate dimension in stride, and filled him in on the basics of their world (which was when he found out it wasn't an alternate reality after all). Then their lunch period was over and they had to head to class. Having nothing better to do and finding the hooliganism rather infectious, he'd waited till they'd come back.

By now they'd talked him into not only writing a few short stories on his keyboard (with main characters named Severus, Dolores, and Draco), but also aiding the resistance effort known as the Order of the Phoenix and abetting their joke shop. He never had a physical role, since they insisted he stay their own little secret, but he'd bring them books from his library, and knowledge from the books in other ones. The Ghostwriter couldn't help feeling that this wasn't really like him, but the Weasley twin's cultivated banter and automatic assumption that everyone would agree with them were too much for his milder personality to override. He didn't mind, though, since judging by the stories he picked up from the Hogwarts students, he was on the right side.

He'd taken a wrong turn from Hogwarts one night, and ended up in what he mistook for a Victorian library until a blonde girl began attacking him. He'd flown out of her way as quickly as he could, but the blades she was currently using were distracting enough that he didn't notice the redhead he was flying towards, or the fact that she was quickly setting up an exorcism ritual until it was almost too late. The Ghostwriter had dived to the side, not caring about the young man in his way until he found himself animating the boy's body, with both girls and a middle-aged man advancing towards him. He'd panicked and blurted out that he'd gotten lost in L-Space, at which point the man had gestured for the girls to stand down and demanded that Ghostwriter "get out of Xander and start explaining. Now."

Ghostwriter had obeyed, saying just enough to get out of this mess, and then the man had ushered the three teens from the room, citing librarian business. More explanation happened, though much was from Giles this time. The human was as intrigued by the idea of a "Ghost Zone" as the Ghostwriter was by vampires, demons, witches, and the like. He'd never considered that ghosts weren't the only creatures of horror out there, or that Danny Phantom wasn't the only person fighting them.

He'd left Sunnydale that night knowing that he had a kindred spirit of sorts in Giles and planning to return to the library some night. He'd been rather surprised the following week when Giles had appeared in his lair, asking if he had any books on ghostly magic or powerful artifacts. Something about Xander touching something he shouldn't have. Somehow, by the end of their book hunt, he'd become the "Official Scooby Gang Ghost Consultant Person", as Buffy later named him.

The Ghostwriter didn't just visit libraries through L-Space, either. There was one bookstore he frequented for its collection of out-of-print books and first editions as well as its passionate, immortal owner. Now _there_ was someone who knew exactly how important books really were! Of course, Aziraphale did occasionally try (very sincerely) to help the Ghostwriter move on, and his annoying friend Crowley always put his feet on the most expensive books in the shop, but they could be forgiven for that. It was only their nature, after all, but that was basically a moot point since both the angel and demon liked his writing.

'No,' the Ghostwriter mused, 'being obsessed with literature isn't as dull as everyone seems to think.' Then he picked up a first edition of Dryden and settled into a corner of the British National Library to read until the librarian opened up for the morning.

_Disclaimer: I don't own __Danny Phantom__, Discworld, the Buffyverse, __LotR, Harry Potter,__Good Omens__, or the British National Library._

_A/N: Please, please, please, _please_ don't ask. (slams her head repeatedly against the wall)_

_A/N 2 (the less concussed version): Inspired by a Discworld/Buffy cross that I can't find right now because the FFN search function's down. The concept of L-Space is really too good to pass up, as was the idea of actually pulling off some of those crossovers… I apologize if I've gotten anyone OOC in this, but let me know, please? And yes, I know my description of L-Space isn't exactly the same as Pratchett's. Oh, and if you like any of the mini-crosses in this piece, you're welcome to adopt them, as long as you tell me you're going to._


	11. Eye of the Beholder

_This is the first chapter of a story I doubt I'll ever get around to actually writing. However, I'm proud of it and I think the potential for a _Supernatural / Danny Phantom _crossover has yet to be explored, so I'm posting it here. As always, this is adoptable (I have notes!) and I own neither TV show._

**Eye of the Beholder**

To the casual observer, the man walking into Betty's Family Cafe could have been any of the residents of Wilsonville, Idaho. He had a jean jacket hanging open around a well-built body and a handsome face topped with short dirty blond hair, and he was swinging a set of car keys absent-mindedly in his hand. He pushed the door to the restaurant open and casually picked up a newspaper from the pile left out for customers while the bell was jangling behind him, then slid into a corner booth occupied by a younger man with long, darker hair and a boyish face. The younger man barely looked up to greet him.

"Mornin', Sammy," the newcomer said. "You ordered yet?" He shifted around to make himself comfortable, and opened up the paper so that it blocked his face.

"Just coffee."

"You didn't get me any of that fancy cappu-whatsit, didja?" The man with the newspaper said gruffly but in a teasing manner. He flipped the page with a crackle.

The younger man sighed. "_No_, Dean. They don't even sell that here."

"Everybody sells that crap, Sam," Dean answered, flipping the page again. A moment later, he grunted. "Hey, take a look at this."

He folded the paper to page five and slid it across the table. Sam looked at it dutifully, but only had time to read the headline, "Ghosts Haunt Oregon City," before the waitress arrived with the coffeepot and filled their cups.

"You guys ready ta order?" she asked, pulling a notepad and a worn pencil out of a pocket.

"Yeah," Dean said, "I'll have the, er," he snuck a glance at the menu, "bacon and egg special."

"And I'll go with a traditional omelet," Sam added, with a soft smile.

"'Kay." The notepad and pencil disappear again. "I'll bring that right out for ya."

The waitress walked off and Sam returned to the newspaper. Dean let him finish the article before asking, "Sounds like our kinda gig, don't it?"

Sam nodded in agreement, brow furrowed in thought.

---

Early that afternoon, Dean's Chevy Impala was cruising along a quiet Oregon highway, Sam riding shotgun and staring out the window as usual. The car was silent except for the heavy metal coming through the speakers. Dean shifted awkwardly and glanced over at his younger brother.

"So, Sammy, uh, Amity Park? Any thoughts?"

"Aren't you supposed to be asking me that _after_ we've done a bit of research?" the younger Winchester teased.

Dean cracked a smile. "Thought we could get ahead this time. Speed things up a bit."

Sam snorted in response. After a few minutes, Dean pressed on again, reluctant to drive in silence.

"C'mon, more than ten regular ghosts, others showing up occasionally, none with fixed haunts, all doing stuff we've never even heard of before? The place is a Hunter's paradise."

"Or his worst nightmare." It was obvious to Sam that Dean was excited about the latest hunt, and Sam grudgingly admitted, after the fairly routine demonic possession they'd dealt with in Idaho and the ghostly prospector in Colorado before that, they probably both needed something interesting. The Amity Park hauntings looked like they'd be perfect. Intriguing, unusual, but nothing overly challenging. Still, Dean also needed to be reminded occasionally that they weren't the best Hunters in America and could very easily be driving into a bad situation.

A road sign flashed by Sam's window, interrupting his musings, and he spoke again, this time in a more bored tone.

"Next exit, Dean. Couple more miles."

---

Sam and Dean drove into Amity Park ("The Best City in the State!") shortly before dinnertime. It seemed normal enough. People were driving home from work, children were playing in the park or their yards, a group of teenagers was hanging around the local burger joint... For a town as haunted as this one was rumoured to be, none of the residents were displaying the characteristic fear that the Winchester brothers expected in these sorts of situations. The men exchanged glances. Perhaps the news article had been a hoax.

Dean had just pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the cheapest looking motel in the city, the Safe House, when there was a crash of masonry and the earth shook. From the feel of it, whatever was going on was only about five blocks away. Anything that strong in this city probably had paranormal roots. It was a reasonable assumption, anyway. Dean quickly killed the engine and both brothers sprang out of the vehicle and ran in the direction of the shakes and screams.

Sam arrived at the scene shortly behind his older brother, only to find him standing stock-still and staring upwards. There was a giant green eagle, with at least a forty-foot wingspan, perched on the top of the Amity Bank. It appeared to be simply loking around with its solid red eyes, not being the least bit harmful if you ignored the gaping pieces of wall where it had anchored its talons and the corresponding pieces of stonework that had flattened several parked cars.

Sensing his brother's presence, Dean spoke in low awe, keeping his eyes trained on the eagle. "Sammy, that look like any ghost you've seen?"

"No."

"You ever heard of a ghost that colour before?"

"No."

"Right. Now what?"

"Either we watch it and take notes for later, or..." Sam held out a rifle that he'd taken from the trunk of the car. "Here. It's already loaded."

"Sounds good," Dean acknowledged, taking the gun. "Let's see if rock salt can hurt this sucker." He began to walk slowly forward, making sure he avoided the ghost's line of sight. He'd made it only about three or four feet when a black and white blur flew past him, with enough speed to spin him a few degrees to the right.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, tensing into his full Hunter stance. "What the hell was that?"

"I'm betting it was him," Sam said, pointing to a figure dressed in black who was hovering near the top of the building a cautious distance back from the eagle. The figure's fists were crackling with green energy, and he seemed to be speaking angrily at the eagle. The bird cocked its head in response, then opened its beak and sent a blast of what looked like green flame straight at the boy in front of it, who dodged to the side just in time. The flames ignited a building instead, but the ghost in black didn't even pause before released the energy in his hands in two beams straight at the eagle's chest. It screeched, leapt off the bank, and launched itself at him, claws first. The boy dove, circled, and hit it with another beam, leading his adversary above the buildings.

The two Hunters standing a ways off exchanged glances. Both ghosts were displaying characteristics that were unheard of in the Hunting community. Still, a ghost had caused property damage and people were scared, and the brothers were the only trained professionals on the scene. Sam and Dean started running, cautiously, towards the ghosts.

The battle was still raging by the time the brothers had climbed up the fire escape of a nearby apartment block. As Dean did his best to get a clear shot at the eagle, because it was causing the most damage of the two ghosts, Sam managed to get a better look at the boy, who looked similar to and completely different from the other ghosts the Winchesters had encountered. He started listing features mentally so they'd have something to start their research with tomorrow.

_White hair. Black jumpsuit, white highlights. D logo, might have an embedded P. Looks to be about fourteen, fifteen. Can go intangible and invisible. Flies, fast. Green energy blasts he's able to control. Seems good at fighting, like he does this a lot. Smart, seems to have rudimentary grasp at strategy. Some sort of metal container on his back._

_CRACK!_

Dean was standing at the other end of the fire escape, finger still pressing down on the trigger. The salt didn't seem to have much effect on either ghost, apart from creating a hole in the eagle's side that already seemed to be healing. Sam watched the ghosts in puzzlement as Dean aimed again and fired, this time having the bullet shoot towards the eagle's head. It missed, but barely, as the aerial battle moved downwards a foot or so. The humanoid ghost bent backwards to avoid it in a move that reminded Sam strongly of the Matrix, on a smaller scale.

Rising back up, the boy clipped the eagle on the head with a martial arts kick that moved his torso low enough to avoid the wing that the bird had moved forward to get him. Pulling out of the kick, he turned towards the Hunters with a livid expression, eyes blazing a brighter green than the energy still whipping around his hands.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he shouted. "You could hurt somebody with that thing!"

"That was kinda the _point_," Dean muttered. He cocked the gun again, but Sam pulled his arm down to stop him from firing.

"Salt's not working, Dean," he said quietly. His brother remained glaring out at the fight.

"Can you think of anything better?" he asked beligerantly.

"No, but–" The rest of Sam's sentence was cut off by a shriek from the eagle and both men turned their attention back to the business at hand. The teenaged ghost had lured the creature up above the buildings and was blasting its chest and wings with a glittering white substance that looked suspiciously like ice. Just as the bird-ghost lost the ability to stay aloft, the boy slung the metal canister Sam had noticed earlier off his back, popped the top off, and aimed it at the paralyzed eagle. A white-blue beam of light shot out of it and encompassed the bird, which screeched again as it was distorted and sucked into the cylinder. The second ghost returned his weapon to its original position, gave a pointed glare in the direction of a slack-jawed Sam and Dean, then literally disappeared.

"Dude… did he just catch a giant eagle in a thermos?" Sam asked after a moment.

"Looks like." Dean pushed past his brother. "C'mon, let's get back to the motel. We have work to do, research boy."

---

Halfway across town, a white-haired boy pulled out a phone in mid-flight and thumbed in a number without looking.

"Tuck? Hey, can you see what you can find about shooting ghosts with salt? … Yeah, salt. … Someone just shot at me, that's why. … Great. Thanks! I'll call you later, 'kay? I'm late for dinner."


	12. The Pen

_Written for Kishamaru on deviantART, Christmas 2006_

* * *

The room was stark, clean, and intimidating. The only furniture it contained was a large desk and two chairs. Everything in sight gave off a slight aura, indicating that this particular jailer's office was located in Walker's Ghost Zone prison.

On the chair nearer to the door sat a thin ghost in a worn purple coat and threadbare grey pants. He looked cold and frail, but still held himself with dignity, despite the handcuffs that kept him seated. He glared sullenly past the purple frames of his glasses at the pure white jailer leaning towards him with his massive fists on the desk.

"Crime on Christmas? That's against the Rules," Walker growled. "Do you realize all you've been charged with?"

The ghost in the chair remained motionless and passive. As far as he could tell, he hadn't committed a single crime tonight. Well, nothing apart from the business with violating the Christmas Truce. If it came down to that, he'd plead insanity.

Walker pulled a list from his front breast pocket and unfolded it slowly, keeping his hard stare trained on Ghost Writer, his latest prisoner.

"Eight counts of Abducting a Ghost," Walker read, "two counts of Altering Reality Without a License …"

_All right, fair enough_, Ghost Writer thought. _I suppose I'm guilty of that one too._

"Fraternizing With a Known Enemy to Ghosts, Provoking a Known Enemy to Ghosts …"

"He started it!" the writer in the chair protested, then clamped his mouth shut again fearfully when he realized that Speaking out of Turn was probably against the Rules too. Walker shot him a glare and continued.

"Mass Haunting Without a Purpose, five counts of Indirect Possession of Humans, and last but most certainly _not_ least, Violating the Christmas Truce and Writing Rhyming Poetry."

"It's a critically acclaimed, valid art form," Ghost Writer muttered to himself. Rhyming wasn't a crime; there was no way it could be. Except that, of course, Walker was known for outlawing any activity that displeased him on short notice.

"What was that?" Walker sneered angrily. "Do you want to add Contradicting Authority to the list?"

"No," the handcuffed ghost said more loudly. He was in for it anyway.

"All right. Seems you _do_ know how to stop yourself after all." Walker looked at his list and did some quick mental calculations. "You're in here for a thousand years. I'm being a little lenient because it's Christmas."

_Gee, thanks,_ Ghost Writer sulked. _That's still an eternity, especially without my Keyboard. Walker won't even give me pen and paper, if what I've heard is correct. This is sadistic._

"Take him away," Walker commanded that ghostly guard at the door. Ghost Writer was seized roughly and dragged out of the chair. Several minutes later he was thrown into a cell and the door slammed shut behind him. He remained on the floor in pain, depression, and anger. He'd just lost everything he cared about for trying to teach someone else to appreciate them. Some people just had no respect for tradition.


End file.
